


Guinness Kisses

by Jackidy



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-12
Updated: 2012-09-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 02:21:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackidy/pseuds/Jackidy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He thinks that if this really was a dare or a bet, Scotland would have picked someone less attractive and more insane. Like England or Belarus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guinness Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is actually quite old. But I wrote it for a friend who intrigued me about this ship and I need to write something else for it I think. I really did enjoy writing this.

It’s just a bet, no a dare really. He should add it further to his list of reasons he shouldn’t listen to Scotland when drunk or sober or Scotland in general. He swears their bromance is beyond unhealthy, taking a hasty drag of his cigarette as he waits outside the meeting hall. Jump him on the way out, no he wasn’t jumping him he was coming onto him in a vastly inappropriate way.

He was going to get bludgeoned by Mjolnir no matter what he did so he may as well go out with a bang.

Eire actually pauses then because he can’t remember if Northern Ireland was taking the piss or not when he said Norway was actually Thor and would come after him in a lightning storm, sporting Mjolnir to bash his nads off. He hopes to god he was taking the piss. 

Running a hand through his black hair as he waited he silently wonders if this was a dare after all. Norway was at least attractive; normally Scotland would tell him to go come onto England or, when he’d really annoyed the Scotsman, France but never Norway. Unless Scotland knew something he didn’t. Shit. He probably did. 

Norway is surprisingly alone when he leaves the building, normally followed by Denmark being the over grown puppy he is or at least his little brother Iceland. But he’s on his own, ignoring Eire in favour for the black car waiting for him. “Oi Norge, wait!” When the blonde stops, turns and glares at him, Eire inwardly curses and pales before grinning and following after.

He has dealt with England, he can deal with Norway.

“Yes?” He hates him already, this is going so well. Shoving both hands in his pockets, so the other can’t see the nervous twitch he’s suddenly developed. Though he must admit, despite the ice edge to the voice there’s something rather friendly in his blue eyes. Norway shakes his head as the other seems out of it, wondering if he should carry on moving or not. “Can I help you, Republic of Ireland?”

He snaps back then, wincing slightly at the use of his full name before remembering what he’d stopped the other for. “I was wondering if you wanted to go for a drink sometime. That is if you’re not-”

“I’ll let you know when I’m free so we can arrange something, unless you’re not busy tomorrow after the meeting.” He leaves then, Eire just blinking in mild bemusement over what had just happened. He’d just agreed to go drinking with him; he’d gotten further than either Scotland or North had expected him to. He hadn’t been brutally injured by a Norse gods hammer. 

With a grin and a whistle he walks away from the meeting hall and to his battered Delorean, slight skip in his step. He actually couldn’t wait until tomorrow’s meeting, or rather until it ended.

\--  
He’s waiting outside again, smoking another cigarette and bouncing from heel to heel. Not that it’s cold, for once its boiling in London, but because he’s convinced the Norwegian is going to skip out on him. Oh how he’d kill for a Guinness right now, unbuttoning the top few button of his shirt and his tie dangling from the inside pocket of his blazer as he lent against the wall.

Eire actually ignores the fact he probably looks like an Irish imitation of the Netherlands, glaring at the back of his brother’s head as he saunters off with America. Poor kid has no idea what he’s letting himself in for.

His glaring and grumbling under his breath about England ceases as his sleeve is pulled, cocking a brow and looking down and staring a little blankly at Norway for a second. Right, he was supposed to be taking him out for a drink. Stubbing out his fag on the side of the building and flicking it in the nearby bin, he turns back to the shorter blonde and grins.

“Any preference on drinks because I know a beaut lil Irish pub round here, does a cracking Guinness.” 

Norway only shrugs, pursing his lips for the moment. “I’ve never actually had Guinness.” 

He pauses, blinks, pauses again and he swears his mouth is hung open enough for him to look so unattractive he was at Scotland level. “We are going for a Guinness and if you have any taste you will like it.” He’s not sure if Norway just laughed or not but he takes that slight smile and the noise that just left his mouth as a good sign as he more or less grabs his hand and starts leading him to the pub.

\--

He’s watching Norway like a hawk when he gets his first pint; or rather he was until he started drinking his own, Norway still eyeing the dark stout suspiciously as Eire more or less downed his. “Just take a sip of it, it’s not that bad. Man’s drink, that’s why North doesn’t drink it.” There’s that small smile again and Eire isn’t sure if it’s the beer that’s making him see it or if he’s actually making Norway smile.

Norway actually drinks some of it then, pulling a face he can’t describe at the taste as he pulls it away and Eire holds back the laugh at the back of his throat. The Guinness Moustache had claimed another victim, Norway only cocking a brow at the highly amused look on the others face. “What?”

“Oh nothing just nice moustache, that’s all.” He starts laughing as Norway starts looking for something to wipe the foam away, fumbling in his pockets only to find nothing. “Here, let me.” Eire snickered, starting to rub the moustache away with his sleeve before rolling it back up and returning to his own beer, quickly finishing it off and calling for another. 

It’s actually rather comfortable with the Norwegian, he doesn’t speak much and when he does it’s often a scathing remark about someone or he’s asking just how Eire can even drink Guinness when it isn’t that nice. Well, at least eh tried to get the other on the Guinness bandwagon, Norway preferring a magners over the Guinness which only mildly annoyed him. At least magners was Irish, even if it was cider.

He’s not actually surprised that it’s raining when they’re done, Norway lingering in the doorway in the rain whilst Eire – in his drunken stupor – has gone stumbling out into it. “You’re going to get drenched, Eire.”

“This isn’t rain, the rain back home is worse. Or better, depends how you see it.” After that they spend the wait for the taxi to take Norway back to his hotel room in almost silence, Eire not quite drunk enough to blurt anything too stupid that will bite him in the ass later and Norway not even close to tipsy to act like a drunken moron. 

Norway still has his blazer as the taxi pulls up, the Norwegian dry as a bone whereas the Irish nation is dripping wet and looking vaguely like a soggy sheep dog by the passing second. Norway doesn’t say anything as he leaves, pausing at the open taxi door and turning back to look at Eire. “We should do this again sometime, though we’ll do it in Norway where the proper beer is.”

He only nods dumbly in response, watching the other go and he’s not sure if it’s the alcohol or the rain or perhaps something else that is making him see things because he swears that, for the third time that evening, Norway had just smiled at him. 

No he was drunk, he was definitely drunk. Norway didn’t just smile at anyone, especially half-drunk Irish nations who were soaked to the bone.

Right?


End file.
